Poem by Rina Terry
Photo by Kees Terberg

Falling In Love, We Thought, Forever

He spoke deep baritone—
the language of arrivals
and departures, but never
in an overnight dialect.

So I write about the roots
of old trees and the soil
where snakes lay their eggs,
and creek-mud water lilies
and the parts of a Lady Slipper:
some have lived to be
a hundred years old.  Wild
violets are my favorite, though,
and small rivers near where
farmers plant their fields
and speak the language

of yep and nope and weather
reports, to the steady rhythm
of irrigation and drainage
pipes.   He smoked a blend
that I purchased and mixed
for him.  I learned to fill, tamp,
and light without ever thinking
about much of anything except
that I liked the fragrance of tobacco
and English Leather cologne.  He was

mysterious and I was quite young
and together we had a son
and a daughter, and built a house
and then he wanted it all to stay
the same.  And I moved on. 

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